Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  Then she froze. As did, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, the flames in the fireplace and, sadly, all the sensations I had been feeling. Only vision was left, and that soon spun like a whirlpool into a strange diminishing, leaving behind the concerned, possibly welcomed face of Roee.

  “Fixx? Fixxer? Are you with me? Are you okay?”

  I looked beyond Roee. We were in a warehouse space. Empty and cavernous except for some furniture, including the chair I sat on, desks, a computer, and other electrical equipment. It was cold. Dry but cold. I looked back at Roee. He was holding a strange pair of glasses in his right hand; trying to get my attention by rubbing my cheek with his left. “Whatever this is I’ve been in,” I said, “if you could just get me back there for, say, twenty minutes more, I promise, from now on, to eat my zucchini. ”

  Now my neck hurt. To move it even slightly was painful. Roee examined it immediately, not happy at the mess. “I really need to clean and dress it,” he said. “There’s infection. ” He grabbed the medical kit from the Bag o’ Tricks, pulled out a small bottle and poured its contents onto a sterilized pad. He approached my neck. “This is going to sting. ”

  I stopped his hand on its approach. “Roee. ”

  “What?” He was slightly piqued.

  “Do you remember when we were prisoners in Syria?”

  “Of course. ”

  “Do you remember those horrible hemp ropes they tied our hands with?”

  “Yes. What?”

  “Thirteen days of rubbing our wrists raw. ”

  “Thanks for the memories. ”

  “After your people rescued us, do you remember that medic who dressed our wounds?”

  “Ariel. ”

  “Ariel. ”

  “Yes. ”

  “He told us it would sting. ”

  “Did he?”

  “I didn’t need to be told then. And I don’t need to be told now. ”

  Roee just smiled. And applied the pad.

  “Ouch!”

  “Told you,” Roee said with some satisfaction.

  “Fill me in?” I said, feeling better after Roee’s ministrations.

  “I jumped off the houseboat and swam hard to get some distance from it. Good thing I did, because the dark hid me from the other boat. I saw the whole thing. I saw them rope York and drag him up onto the boat. He knew them. He started shouting at them about his boat. They told him to shut-up, handed him a blanket and forced him below deck. Then they got you. I thought you were dead when they pulled you up onto the boat. The roper, by the way, was Zhelyu Batsarov… ”

  “The Bulgarian Cowboy?”

  “That’s right. ”

  “Makes sense in regards to the rope. Not much otherwise. ”

  “Well he was the leader. Gave the orders. The boat started to head to shore. ”

  “What did you do?”

  “Grabbed the mini-grapple from the Bag o’ Tricks and was able to get a shot off. Latched onto a rail on the stern. ”

  “So you got towed along. ”

  “Yeah.

  “Where did they dock?”

  “Close to where we are here. We’re in one of a series of warehouses by the railway yards. ”

  “The Northwestern Dock most likely. Hell of a trip for you. ”

  “Coldest, wettest trip I’ve ever made. But it will make me much more appreciative of the aridity of my homeland. ”

  “Go on. ”

  “When they docked I was able to get to the starboard and watch them come down the gangplank. There were four of them besides York. One of them carried you down fireman style, so I knew you were alive. The only other one I recognized was Paddy O’Shane. ”

  “Ex-IRA. ”

  “Yeah. York was now wearing a gray running suit. You too. ”

  I hadn’t thought about that. I looked myself over and, indeed, I was in a thick, gray sweat suit.

  “I watched them take you to this warehouse. Then I got on board their boat. ”

  “What did you go on the boat for?”

  “I wanted to get one of these snazzy running outfits. I was freezing wet. I found about a dozen, all sizes. They must buy in bulk from Sportswear for Thugs. Anyway, once dry, warm, and a with a couple of slugs of the J&B they had on board in my belly, I sauntered on over here to the warehouse to see what they were doing to you. ”

  “You ‘sauntered?’”

  “I hadn’t heard any screams. ”

  “I see. ”

  “Anyway, I got here and the door was open, I didn’t even have to pick the lock. These are very confident people. So, I was able to sneak in and see what was going on. ”

  “Which was?”

  “You sitting here in this chair with this pair of glasses on; this computer setup running, with York at the controls. One of the thugs I didn’t recognized was watching this medical monitor. ”

  “Let me see the glasses. ” Roee handed them to me. They were the size and had the look of an ordinary pair of eyeglasses. The lenses, though, were thick, dark, and opaque. I tried them on. There was nothing to see. The other unusual aspect about them was that inside both bows were metal contact points placed where the bows touched the head at the temples and behind the ears. “Was I moving at all while I had these on? Jerky movements, like I was trying to run, or struggling movements?”

  “No. You were completely still. Almost, I would say, paralyzed. Batsarov was giving York orders. York wasn’t happy about it. He was still upset about his houseboat. ”

  “What kind of orders?”

  “‘Do the Castle program’, was one. Then he ordered him to quickly shift to the Cousteau program. Then they got a phone call. I couldn’t hear any of it, but Batsarov, York and two others left because of it. They left Paddy O’Shane behind. Batsarov told him to go ahead and have some fun playing more video games with your head, but once he got bored—to kill you. They left, then O’Shane gleefully jumped to the keyboard and punched some keys, changing the program again, I assumed. Then he did something very strange. ”

  “What was that?”

  “He moved this reading lamp towards you and directed its beam towards your crotch. ”

  Roee looked to me for a possible explanation. I offered none.

  “Anyway, it was soon after that, that I subdued him; took the glasses off your face, and saw you regained consciousness. ”

  “Not regained. ”

  “What?”

  “I had been conscious for quite a while, I think. ”

  “You didn’t look conscious. ”

  “Did I look like I was in a deep sleep?”

  “Yeah. ”

  “Nonetheless, I was conscious. ”

  “Well, if you were conscious, can you tell me what was happening inside your head?”

  “I can, but later. It’s the key to this whole affair, though. Right now, we’ve got to get out of here. Let’s take these glasses. And grab any CDs you find, especially gold ones. And disconnect that black box from the computer, we’ll take that too. ”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “My best guess? You’ll notice these glasses aren’t connected to the computer by any wires. The box is probably an infrared transmitter of some kind. ”

  Roee gathered everything up and put it in the Bag o’ Tricks, then we started to leave. That’s when I noticed Paddy O’Shane sprawled on the cold, cement warehouse floor. I bent down to examine him. “Roee?” I said with some surprise. “His neck is broken. ”

  “Yeah. He pissed me off. ”

  “Well, jeez, Roee, he may have been a thug committing God knows what criminal acts, but still, to him he was just doing his job. ”

  “No, he pissed me off in 1986. He was selling guns to Arab bad boys back then to raise money for the IRA. ”

  “Ah. Situational ethics. Always handy”

  Chapter 9

  Prancing Prunes

  In deck shoes from the boat, we made our way out of the Northwestern Dock and across the train tracks
eventually finding the Sailor’s Haven Hotel, a small daily, weekly or monthly establishment overlooking Overlook Park. The desk clerk was not surprised to be facing two men wanting two rooms at two in the morning. As the name indicated, this was a hotel that catered to sailors, which the clerk assumed we were, and sailors arrive in port, or come off drunks, at all hours.

  I quickly climbed into bed. Exhaustion had hit me the moment I saw it, sagging though it was. Nonetheless, as my head hit the pillow it sped up with the urgency to make sense out of events of the past couple of days.

  I now knew what this game was about. York was right. There was little that was virtual about the realities I had been put through. Veritas, York had called it, Latin for truth. I had been absolutely convinced of the truth of the experiences I was having, even while maintaining an opinion that they could in no way be true. Although obviously not perfected, it was a technology as advanced from today’s computer graphic virtual realities, as my 911 was from a Model T—but for what purpose? Name it, anything from entertainment to brainwashing, and everything in-between—if there is anything in-between.

  A commercial item then, a very commercial item that would not just comfortably compete with the competition; one that could—some would assume—annihilate the competition. With a patent on this technology you would have a 17 to 20 year monopoly, depending on the outcome of certain legislation in Washington. Enough time to profit greatly and establish a real expertise in both the technology and in the creation and improvement of software for the technology. It was the Big Score, El Dorado, a license to print money. Think of it how you may, it could be a compunction-punching goal for certain individuals.

  Certain individuals like Zhelyu Batsarov.

  What was he doing here?

  Batsarov, “The Bulgarian Cowboy,” was well known to Western Intelligence. He had worked for them while serving his other masters in the State Secret Service during the last years of Communist rule. It was not so much that he had been a double agent, as he had been a happy reporter of any convincing information that Communism was dying which would encourage the West to encourage the situation. He was—paradoxically it seemed at the time, for it meant the end of his state-funded career—anxious for the “New World Order” to begin. It was not the West and the joys of representative democracy he loved; it was the “Wild West” and the joys of sudden, unfettered Capitalism. Wide-open spaces for entrepreneurial thuggery were what he was looking for. Batsarov saw himself as a Cowboy. Not a cow puncher, a dirt-encrusted driver of cattle to market, but one of the red-bandanna-wearing outlaws known by that name who crossed six-guns with the likes of Wyatt Earp, who was himself a bit of a entrepreneurial relativist in regards to the Law of the Land. Batsarov had a six-gun, a Colt 45 he claimed Cole Younger had used, and a lasso, he was well known for the amusement of his rope tricks. He was also well known as the Bulgarian bore who would ask every American operative he came into contact with, “Do you know Clint Eastwood?”

  Once Communism fell, Batsarov set up shop with Krassimir Indzhova, a former Olympic wrestler, to form VeriGroup, ostensibly a legitimate commercial group controlling real estate, oil, mining, and agribusiness. But it also had an array of security services offering “protection” to all the new businesses, large and small, flourishing in the New World Order. This was Batsarov’s main charge. It was assumed it had made him happy, rich, and settled.

  So what was he doing in America involved with film/computer geeks? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the “security guards” he oversaw became known by the whispered nickname of “Wrestlers” instead of “Cowboys. ” A territorial fight perhaps? One he lost? So, in the grand tradition of the Old West, did Batsarov leave to find new territory out west?

  But how did he get involved in this particular little affair? It was a question

  I couldn’t answer by just musing away in Sailor’s Haven. But I did know this: His involvement did not cause the death of David Finch. Finch’s own greedy ego being sideswiped by the greedy ego of Paul Hinckley was the cause, indirect though it may have been. But Batsarov was certainly the cause of the violation of Finch’s body, that was certainly something Batsarov would think of and quickly carry out. And the destruction of York’s boat—that would have been just second nature to Batsarov.

  Were there any potential outrages on the horizon?

  I made a mental note to get in touch with Jim Skinner at Caltech first thing in the morning.

  Was Batsarov the main ingredient in this stew? I doubted it. I had a suspicion as to who might be. But to find the tracks on the trail that would lead to that person, I had to question a couple of people first. Including a man in Portland who was best known for revealing the delights of prancing prunes.

  *

  Roee came into my room and woke me up. He was dressed in his own clothes, which were freshly laundered and pressed. He put a pile of my clothes, similarly recovered, on the foot of my bed.

  “How did you get this done so quickly?” I asked.

  “Please!” He admonished. Sometimes I forget that Roee does not like his miracles questioned. “Your shirt’s in good condition but I suggest you wear this. ” He threw at me a store-wrapped turtleneck pullover. I reached for the bandages at my neck. It was a good idea.

  “What time is it?”

  “10:30. ”

  “Damn! I should have gotten up earlier. We need to call Jim Skinner. ”

  “I’ve already tried. His home number is unlisted, but a friend at the phone company—”

  “George?”

  Roee smiled. “Yeah, George. He got it for me. No answer, only a machine. I called Caltech. They would not connect me with his lab. They would only take a message. I guess it’s his standing order. I could literally ‘hear’ the operator’s eyes go to the top of her head. I think her patience has been worn thin by eccentric scientists. ”

  “I’ll call the Captain, then, give him an update, and ask him to check out

  Skinner. ”

  *

  We took a taxi back to the marina and found our rental car undisturbed, except for a parking ticket.

  “I’ll call the Captain on this. ” Roee said. “He might have friends up here. ”

  I shook my head and took the ticket. “Always pay parking tickets, Roee. It builds up good Karma for when you really need to get away with something. ”

  We drove to the animation studio of Johnny Lynton on N. W. 24th Avenue. Lynton was an interesting character. Originally he started as a high school art teacher who became frustrated in trying to get to his students. He soon decided to communicate on a level they understood—film. So he lobbied for, and got the funding to start, an animation class. Clay was the easiest medium for beginners to work in and soon he had a bunch of students sculpting strange little creatures and making them do—usually—violent, adolescent, yet funny, actions. After 10 years of this program he was named Portland Teacher of the Year, but denied a raise. In protest he quit and formed a small animation production house staffed by the talent he had trained over the years. At first they did raw, funny clay animation TV commercials for the local market, work that got seen at film festivals. Soon major agencies were asking him to bid on national spots. At this point he named his studio Johnny-on-the-Spot Productions and started churning out very distinctive commercials. His biggest hit was a series of spots for the Prune Growers Association of America, in which anthropomorphic long hair prunes with cute faces, sang and danced to the tune of “Let the Sun Shine”:

  Let the Prunes in

  Let the Prunes in

  The Prancing Prunes were a big hit. They were credited with bringing more regularity to America than three hundred years of Sunday sermons. But clay, despite being highly moldable, was limiting to Lynton and he soon branched out and became one of the first explorers in the possibilities of computer animation. His work, at first, was not slick, but it had something most computer animation lacked at that time—spontaneity, humor, and life. His company, now r
enamed Johnny Lynton Productions, grew beyond commercials and moved into music videos and the occasional TV special. It became one of the most publicized success stories of Portland, and Lynton became a major figure in Portland society. Then he tried to break into features. It was tough going. Wildcatters can produce commercials and TV oddities, but features of any great scope are really the product of the Hollywood based. Lynton hated that. He decided to promote his studio and himself by sponsoring an annual Creativity Conference, bringing up major players from Hollywood to sit on panels and impress the locals. There was something of Mohammed in Lynton.

  “I’m Special Agent Herrington and this is Special Agent McNally,” I said to the receptionist as we displayed our Federal IDs. “I apologize for not having an appointment, but it is important that we see Mr. Lynton now. ”

  Lynton’s office was on the second floor of his studio, which was a lavishly converted warehouse. The ground floor, we saw as Lynton’s assistant guided us, was taken up with computer workstations, displays of past work, and a conference room. The employees were mostly young, casually dressed, very Pacific Northwest types—lumberjacks melded with hippies. Lynton himself was a man of medium height with thinning brown hair poorly cut and combed with his hand. He had a face wide enough to support the broad grin he greeted us with. “Please sit down. I’m really intrigued. Why would Federal Agents want to talk to me?” he said in a voice not high nor low, but in that in-between, soothing, windy type usually called pleasant.

  “Mr. Lynton,” I started, “we are investigating a fairly sensitive matter, and we would like to ask you a few questions about some individuals you may know. ”

  “Who? I can’t imagine?”

  Roee played his part and looked to scribbles in a notebook he held. “Craig York. Jim Skinner. David Finch. ”

  “Oh. Huey, Dewey, and Louie. ”

  “Excuse me?” Roee confessed confusion.

  “You know, Donald’s nephews. That’s what they called themselves. Although part of the joke was, they would never reveal who was who. ”